Though She Were Dead
by Heart Iconography
Summary: "Maybe a man can love a broken thing, if he too, himself, is broken."
1. Chapter 1

_**AN: **I keep trying to update Life & Death, but this story continues rattling around in my head, making it impossible. Thought I'd put it down and maybe it'll become something, or maybe it will leave me alone. Hope you like it, at the very least._

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><p>She woke up one day.<br>She woke up.

Herself and a man. An abandoned church. She woke up wanting to swing; out of the darkness, to find another darkness inside of her. She wanted to die. To have died. Not this. She saw the creatures - _walkers,_ he had called them - and felt jealousy. They were free, or at least, they weren't aware they were trapped inside their skin, which knew enough itself to try to leave its bones and rot.

"Go," she managed, trying to pull herself out of his grasp.

"You're not going anywhere. You'd die out there!" the man snapped at her. He called himself Morgan. She called him nothing. "Don't you get that? You're barely healed."

"Die," she countered, eyes narrowing on his face.

"You're in no shape to make threats," he threw casually over his shoulder, walking over the window to stare out into the wilderness.

"Die," she tried again, pressing her hand against her chest. _Me, _she wanted to say, _let me go crawl away somewhere to die. _"Go! Die!"

"Stop it," Morgan snapped at her. "I've got enough blood on my hands. I'm not adding yours to the list, and I sure as hell haven't played nursemaid for the past two months to have you go off yourself. You hate your situation? Join the club! Focus your anger. Help me clear! We're here to clear! To find Rick and to clear!"

She snorted. There was no one left. Didn't Morgan get that? And even if there were, would the people not be like them? Morgan, barely holding it together, and her - unable to remember anything, brain at risk of getting sunburned through a bullet hole that blew her head open? Did he not understand it was over.

"No - no," she pushed out. "No one."

"Rick isn't dead," Morgan said with an air of finality. "You don't know him. Hell, you don't even know your own name. What made you the authority on this situation? Maybe figure out how to string a sentence together and I'll let you have a say."

Her response was cold and calculated - in one easy movement she knocked the crate that had been doubling as a table over. Wood slammed into wood, loud in the silence, water spilling around them - wasted. Morgan growled low in his throat, fisting his hands at his sides.

"You want to bring the walkers to us, huh?" Morgan spat at her. "You might want to die, but I don't, and I'll tie you up again if I have to. You don't have to like me, or agree with me, but you're coming along for the ride. Once you're better, I can train you. Have you fight like I can fight. You won't feel so bad then. Not once you start clearing. Clearing them - clearing your head. It gets better, kid."

The man was stubborn. Stubborn and terrible. Possibly crazy, but never violent - not towards her. He barely spoke to her. Avoided touching her when he could, especially since she hated it. Was he a good man or a bad man, she didnt know. Couldn't remember enough of anything to make a judgment like that. Maybe he was a bit of both.

"Stup -" she tried and failed. "Stup - stup -"

"Stupid?" Morgan asked, and watched her nod, as she smirked at him almost hatefully. "I agree, you are acting awfully stupid today. Maybe tomorrow will be better, huh?"

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><p><span><strong>2 months later:<strong>

"Tired already?" Morgan mocked her, swinging his fist out as she ducked.

"Ha!" she exclaimed simply, kicking his knee and swiftly knocking his feet out from under him. Before Morgan could blink she had her knife on him, pressing against his throat, eyes glittering cold and hard. "You. Dead."

"Thought we talked about the full sentences," Morgan said, pushing her off and standing up himself. "If you talk like that, people are going to think you're slow and easy to take advantage of."

"And they'll be wrong," she ground out. "And then they'll be dead."

"Better not to get into it," he said. "We're not warriors here. You're not invincible."

"Got a big scar that might prove otherwise," she said, clucking her tongue.

"You would've died from that had I not found you," he responded, handing her a gun to clean. She had learned quickly. Her hands were small and thin and sure. She was faster than him now. Part of her wondered if she had done this before. She must have.

"Did," she said pointing at him, then she turned her finger at herself, "didn't."

"You're doing it again," he reminded her.

Learning how to talk had been a slow and frustrating process. She had the words, could hear them inside her head, but when it came to pushing them out - sometimes the fat got trimmed off her sentences without her knowledge. Words got stalled, or stopped, or dropped completely. It still took a concentrated effort, and she didn't bother most of the time. She didn't have much to say, after all.

"Just us," she said indifferently.

"It won't always be just us," Morgan reminded her. She felt her body tense up at his words. Morgan was the only person she had met - the only person she knew. Or could remember knowing. The thought of more people, alive people, made her nervous in a way that she hated and mostly tried to ignore. "We're leaving in a couple days."

"I know," she bit out.

"You still need a name," Morgan told her. "It doesn't bother me much because you aren't exactly chatty, but I need something to call you - when we get there, I'll need to introduce you."

"Phoenix," she joked. "Not dead, not dead. I have risen!"

"Would you take this seriously?" he asked. "Just pick something simple. Like Hanna, or Amber."

"Phoenix," she said again, knowing it bothered him. She had no intention of ever having a name again. She was no one. Nothing. A shadow, armed and ready to kill. When Morgan turned to look at her, she flapped her arms. "Phoenix."

"You won't always be so lucky," Morgan warned her.

And in the place where this or that would sometimes float up inside of her, wisps of somethings small enough to be nothings, she quoted: _"I am the resurrection and the Life. He that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die."_


	2. Chapter 2

She was looking at her hands - the thin fingers, the blue veins. So much, just under the surface. Blood, and guts, and gore... all held together with skin. She remembered Morgan changing her bandages; how the red had browned like dying poppies. But here she was, still, in the middle of nowhere. Thirteen days on the road, chasing ghosts.

"What are you looking at?" he asked her. "Y'alright?"

"Thinking," she responded, pushing at a cuticle, ignoring the dirt and blood under her nails.

"About the men?" Morgan asked.

The day before they had come across a group of them - three, to be exact. They had claimed they only wanted to take half their supplies and leave. Of course, Morgan was only waiting for his moment, but when they grabbed her... all the training effortlessly flowed from her, taking two of them down easily. She had stepped over their dead bodies, leaving Morgan, who had already put down the third, to make sure the others didn't turn.

"Weapons," she said, holding up her hands for him, showing the front than the back - blanking on the words to explain.

"... they can be," Morgan said quietly. "When you have to use 'em like that."

"Always," she said with an air of finality.

"Always what, P?" he asked, using the nickname he had given her, refusing to call her Phoenix.

"They... will always be," she said, "weapons. Can't undo."

"Maybe not," he said.

She appreciated that Morgan never tried to comfort or sugar-coat. He spoke his mind, and if it broke someone's heart, then so be it. Of course, she wasn't sad. Not exactly. The men had deserved it. Had wanted to kill her - maybe worse - because even now, she still knew there were things worse than death - like this. Like knowing, somehow, that something inside of her was broken because even her bones felt cold. She had killed. Like it was nothing. And it almost was... nothing... to her.

"Further?"

"Try again," Morgan said, still pushing her to speak. Always pushing her.

"How much?" she said, tongue feeling clumsy. "How much further we got?"

"A while," he said. "It ain't exactly a science anymore."

"Done?" she asked. "Should we?"

"Yeah. We're done for tonight."

"Tell me about the man? About... Rick?" she questioned.

"Again, P?" he asked, sounding tired.

"I want..." she said, pushing her hair out of her face, "I want... to be... ready. In case."

"There's no _in case, _P. I told you that," he said, looking into her eyes. "I told you he's a good man. He won't do anything to hurt us."

"In case."

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><p>In her dreams there was always fire. Orange, and red, and yellow - rising, billowing; but she wasn't afraid. She was stood outside of it, watching. She could smell the smoke. Taste it. Could hear each ember crack and pop in the darkness all around the burning light that threatened to eat up everything.<p>

_"I wish I could just... change." _

The same six words. Always her voice. Softer, somehow. Easier. Wavering. Possibly hurt. Possibly trying to hide it. She would wake and wonder if it was a memory - not a dream. If this minute long scene that stretched and repeated was nothing more than her remembering something...

_Did I ask for this? _she wonders. _Change. _The way she does not recognize her body, or the feelings inside. _Did I want this? Probably not. Probably should've been more specific. _In her dreams, the stars always look closer than they are - seem more real.

_You should've held on,_ she thinks to herself - at herself - as though the person she used to be is someone that exists outside of her now. _You should've... you shouldn't have let go. Nothing feels like this anymore. You're gone. _

_You're just gone._

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><p>"Again," she demands grimly.<p>

They have been walking for hours, the sun hot on their necks. They're following Morgan's map - praying to come across a car. Something to make it easier. Faster. She watches the annoyed tick of his jaw, the gnash of his teeth. Morgan is sick of her. She expects a fight, but instead he sighs and gives in.

"His name is Rick Grimes. Found him wandering in the middle of the street. He had been in a coma, didn't know anything about what had happened. He helped me and... he helped me find guns, left me with a walkie-talkie because... I had something I needed to do before I could go... go with him."

"Walkie...?"

"It's like a phone... but... it's not important. It was just a way for us to hear each other. To keep in touch. It didn't work anyway. He came across me, holed up in a town, clearing."

"Cop?" she asked. "Right?"

"He was a sheriff," Morgan said. "Yes."

"Good?" she asked. "Good with gun?"

"Had to be," he responded. "He's a good guy, P. You know I wouldn't be leading us into this if I thought it'd get us killed."

"And if..." she asked, "If he's... dead? Or... if he's... wrong?"

"Wrong?" he asked. "Like a walker?"

"No," she said shaking her head, and pointing at herself, "if he's _wrong..._"

Morgan sighed heavily, shaking his head, refusing to respond. She wasn't sure if it was because of what she implied about herself, or because of what would happen if Rick was messed up, too. She worried about Morgan - about how wholly he relied on this idea of a man she had never met; as though all of his hope was balled up in finding Rick, and if it didn't work out... where would that leave her? Or Morgan?

_Clearing, _she answered herself. _We all got jobs to do. _

"Further?" she asked to break the silence.

"You're like a broken record!" he muttered.

"What's that?" she asked, not understanding.

"What's a record?" he asked. When she nodded, he continued, "You know, people used to record themselves singing. Playing music. It was a big disc."

"Singing," she said flatly. "Waste."

"Waste of time?" Morgan guessed, trying to fill in the blank.

"Big," she nodded, adding, "big waste."


	3. Chapter 3

_Almost there. _Those two words, like a prayer, muttered under Morgan's breath again and again. DC had been a bust - the map had been a bust. Rick was no where to be found; she couldn't say she was surprised. She looked over at Morgan, trying to find something comforting to say. She could feel him slipping into darkness, into what it was like before her - before she knew him. The long years he talked about like a fever dream - clearing, and not much else.

"Drink," she said, handing her water bottle over to him.

She had been expecting a fight, but he took it without comment, downing half the contents recklessly. The plastic crinkled dismally. _Another run, _she thought to herself. At least he was drinking though, and talking - though, if only to himself. At least he hadn't given up or shut down.

"Now?" she asked. When he looked at her questioningly, she tried again. "What... what now?"

"Find Rick," he answered succinctly.

"Maybe... gone," she pushed out.

"He's not here, but he's somewhere, P," Morgan said, handing the bottle back to her. "You just have to have a little faith."

"So?" she asked, pointing at the map sticking out of his coat pocket. "Where?"

"Heard about a place with walls some time back. Alexandria. It's not far from here, we could make it before sun down. Knowing Rick, that's where they were headed."

She wanted to say, _Look around you, Morgan. All of these buildings have walls. And all of those walls now contain walkers. You think this place will still be up? Still be safe? You think walls can keep the death out? _Instead she nodded grimly, not wanting to upset him further. As they walked, she wondered what would happen when they arrived there - when there was nothing, or no one, or what was left was less than he expected.

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><p>Walls hadn't begun to describe Alexandria. Miles before they reached the place, she could see them towering in the skyline, seemingly endless. Sprawling on and on. Protecting. Holding. Containing. Of course, there was no telling what was inside of them - walkers or people - or which would be worse.<p>

They stood outside of the walls, finding no signs or people. She brandished her knife, always ready, always waiting. She didn't have to look to know Morgan had done the same, even in his flagging mood. For a moment, a long moment, they just stood there. Not moving or speaking. Staring. Morgan, hoping - and her, dreading. The weight of sick weighed heavily in her stomach.

"Knock?" she asked breaking the silence.

"Don't see any door," he said, huffing out a tired laugh. "Thinkin' we mighta came up on this place at the wrong side."

"Holler?" she suggested.

"Just... be ready. Stay behind me. Cover me. And try to use full sentences when you speak. We both know you aren't weak or slow, but no one else does, and painting a target on your back would be a mistake. Even if you can get out of it. Better to just... not. Okay, P?"

"You got... it," she said, doing her best.

Suddenly a head appeared over the wall, looking down at them, gun pointed. It was an older man with dirty blond hair. He looked shocked to see the pair of them standing there. Morgan shielded more of her body with his shoulder, and she found it hard to get a look at the man on the other side of the wall.

"Thought I heard voices," the man said.

"We don't want any trouble," Morgan responded. "We've been looking for a friend. Thought he might've found his way here."

"Right," the man said. "And does this friend have a name?"

"Rick," Morgan bit out, annoyed. "His name is Rick Grimes."

The man stopped for a moment - stopped talking, stopped moving, maybe even stopped breathing. Her heart sped up. He knew Rick. It was obvious. The man ducked down behind the wall, whispering to someone else, and then looked back up.

"Who are you?" the man asked. "Your names."

"My name is Morgan. This is my friend. She goes by P."

"You can't talk for yourself?" the blond man asked, directing his question at her.

"My name... is Phoenix," she ground out.

"That's a weird name."

"That's why... the nickname," she responded.

"Come to the side, over to the left. You'll see the gates. Drop your weapons by the front. If that doesn't mesh with you, then you're free to walk outta here and not look back, okay?"

Morgan nodded but didn't speak. She followed him around to the side. It took them at least ten minutes to get to the gate. They laid down their weapons, both having others strapped to their bodies, hidden underneath clothes. Still, it was the gesture. A show of good faith, and if that's what the man needed for answers, than she knew that's what she'd be doing.

When the gates opened, two men were standing there, with several other people a few feet behind them - men, women, even a kid or two. Neither of them were the blond. She peeked over Morgan's shoulder trying to get a better look. The man lowering his pointed gun had a shocked smile on his face, the corners of his lips kept twitching upwards. The other, with longer hair, kept his loaded crossbow up and ready. Waiting. Dangerous.

"God damn, it is you. Never thought I'd see you again, friend! Though I guess I shouldn't be surprised you're still alive," the smiling man laughed. Then, to the people behind him, watching and waiting, he said, "He is who he said he was. Morgan. This man saved my life."

"I told you, P," Morgan said to her, not looking back. "I told you he'd make it."

"She can come out from behind you there," Rick said. "You guys are safe here. I'm sure Morgan's told you about us. We're good people. We won't hurt you."

She stayed rooted where she was. Her glance kept the other man in her eye line. His crossbow still hadn't lowered, and she had a feeling if he shot something, he hit the mark every time. He was making her nervous. If they were good people, why was he still aiming at Morgan?

"Daryl," Rick said, "put your crossbow down. I think you're scaring her."

"Right," the other man drawled sheepishly, lowering his weapon. "Sorry."

"You don't need to mind him," Rick vouched for his friend. "He's a good shot, that's for damn sure, but we've been through a lot. Lost a lot of people. He just wants to keep everyone here safe."

"Wasn't... scared of him," she said, stepping out from behind Morgan.

She heard a gasp, then another. Whispering. Shouting for a woman named Maggie. Everyone looked shocked, except for the bowman. Daryl looked... betrayed. It was only when he glanced to everyone around him, that his eyes widened on her own with disbelief.

"Beth?" he asked, hands shaking, weapon fallen to the ground. Suddenly he was charging towards her, all limbs moving fast, "Beth!"

She grabbed the knife from underneath her shirt fluidly, holding it up at him. Morgan got to Daryl before she could though, holding him back with a hand on his chest. The man stopped when he saw the fear in her eyes, the uncertainty.

"God damn it, let me go," he said, "I ain't gonna hurt her. Beth, tell him I ain't gonna hurt ya!"

"I don't know him," she said to Morgan, voice flat and small.

"She was with us," Rick said. "We thought... she was shot... in the head. There was so much blood and no time. There was no time, we got overrun. We had to go."

"Beth," Daryl said again, blue eyes showing his hurt so strongly it threatened to take her breath away. "We didn't mean to leave ya there. We were... I carried ya out."

"She was half-buried when I found her," Morgan said. "The walkers were swarming her."

Her head was swimming, trying to take in all the new information. She had known these people - they said they knew her. They were there when she was shot and left for dead - they left her for dead! And they kept calling her Beth. She rolled the name around, feeling no attachment to it.

"We didn't... bury her," Daryl said, hands fisting at his sides. "There wasn't time. We all thought ya died and we didn't even get t'say goodbye."

"Could've been the people at the hospital," Rick said. "Everyone there... they were real fond of you, Beth. You always had that way about you - of makin' people take to you."

"Why would... doctors... when I was... not dead?" she asked. "I was not... dead."

"It wasn't a regular hospital. There was only one doctor - the nursing staff were just patients they had managed to save and forced to work there. Like they did with you," Rick said, coming to stand next to Daryl who had not taken his eyes off of her, not for one second. "You and Daryl were together before the hospital. They took you, against your will - we had just... we had just finally found you. I'm guessing the doctor had someone else bury you - either the patients or the staff. They wouldn't have known you weren't... they wouldn't have thought to... you looked... even we thought... Beth, we're so sorry."

"I don't... remember anything... before," she said. "No point... in sorry. Not Beth. I'm not."

"Y'are Beth," Daryl said to her, anguish lacing his voice. "You are."

"I'm not... anyone," she responded evenly.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: **_My thanks to everyone who has favorited or reviewed this story. I'm really enjoying writing it, and if no one was interested in it, it would've been really hard to justify keeping it going._

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><p>Inside. They were inside of the gates - cut off from the sprawling wasteland outside. Trapped. Morgan was off to the side, speaking in hushed tones to Rick. She stood awkwardly, gripping her knife, the one the blond man had attempted to take from her; Daryl had stopped him with a harsh word she had been unable to hear over the pounding of her own heart. Still, his tone cut through, like a rock sailing through glass.<p>

She had been turning her own name over in her head again and again (_Beth, Beth!, Beth?_), when the sound of feet hitting ground had torn her out of it. A woman, slightly older than herself, with brown hair was running full steam ahead. A man followed her, gun strapped to his back, shouting her name.

"Maggie! Maggie! Slow down," he tried.

"Where is she?" the woman demanded right as her eyes landed on her. "Oh my God! Oh God! I can't believe you're here. I can't believe -"

"She don't remember anythin'," Daryl cut in. "She ain't got a damn clue who none of us are."

"But she's alive," the man said, then turned to her calmly. "I'm Glenn. I'm married to Maggie. She's your sister."

Sister; she knew the word - it was one of the few that hadn't got knocked out of her brain. Of course, like many words, she couldn't exactly remember it in relation to herself - so when the older woman had tried to wrap her arms around her, coming at her like a tornado of tears and amazement, she stumbled over her own feet to get away.

Though Maggie looked like she'd been slapped, she straightened up her shoulders, and gave a watery smile. Glenn took a couple of steps until he was standing next to his wife, hand rubbing up and down her back comfortingly.

"I'm sorry," Maggie said. "I didn't mean to... I just never thought I'd see you again. And honestly, I don't care if you don't remember me. We can make new memories. We can start over. Just as long as you're here - and you're here, so it's fine. It's great. It's so great."

"Nice... to meet," she forced out; she was unsure how to respond to Maggie's intensity. The woman was looking at her expectantly, so she added, "...great?"

"I'm sorry you had to wake up alone," Maggie said, tears now running down her cheeks.

"She didn't," Rick said as he and Morgan joined the conversation. "Morgan here got her out of there and took care of her. And when you're confused and without your family, he's a good person to have around. I oughta know."

"Well, I don't know how great I was. And I'm sure P. here could tell you some horror stories -"

"P?" Maggie asked.

"Oh, that's what she picked," Morgan said. "She couldn't remember so -"

"Phoenix," she said, interrupting him. "Phoenix. Not P."

"Phoenix?" Maggie asked, a laugh escaping her. "That is just like ya, Bethy. Why don't you two come with Glenn and I? We'll get y'all cleaned up for dinner!"

She followed the woman who was her sister. The woman she could not remember. As she was passing, she could see the bowman's hands twitch, fingers opening and closing by his thighs, as if wanting to reach for something. Wanting to hold on. She looked past him, to the house, and felt a pressure building on her chest.

She wanted to run. 

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><p>Dinner was small - just herself, Morgan, Maggie, Glenn, Rick, and Daryl. Her sister promised there were more people that were excited to see her. <em>Family, <em>Rick had called them - though she got the sense it was more of a broad term than literal. She had nodded politely, cutting into the meat that had been identified as deer. Daryl had caught it, though that hardly came as a surprise given how she'd seen him aiming his crossbow when they'd first met; the man was a hunter through and through.

Maggie did most of the talking. Rick threw in asides here and there, when not in conversation with Morgan. The only person who said less than her was Daryl. He stared at his plate, holding his fork so hard his knuckles were white. It made her uncomfortable, but sympathetic. She would rather be anywhere but here, and it looked as though he shared that feeling too.

"I want... to walk," she declared, pushing away from the table.

"I could show you around?" Maggie volunteered.

"No," she said quickly, trying not to notice the hurt in her sister's eyes. "Clear my head. Okay?"

"It's safe here," Rick said. "She'll be fine to take a walk around on her own."

"Staying with... Morgan," she pushed out. Living arrangements had yet to be made, but she wasn't leaving it until everything was settled without her and she was stuck bunking with her sister and Glenn. "Only person... I know."

"That's fine," Maggie assured her. "You two will be right next door to us. This is our house. You're in the one on the left."

Suddenly Daryl stood up from the table, smacking it with his leg, making the dishes rattle. He cursed under his breath, but said nothing else, exiting the room quickly and slamming the door behind him. She wanted to ask Rick what his friend's problem was, but couldn't stomach socializing one more minute.

She waited a minute or two at the door, hoping the bowman was gone. When she stepped outside, the cool night air greeted her. She breathed in deeply, tasting a little freedom, pushing herself far away from the house and the people inside of it. She walked around the property, noticing how large it was, feeling a little confused at the layout.

About a half hour had passed when she found herself sitting in a look-out post on the wall. On the other side were empty buildings, abandoned cars - and further off, trees, hinting at wilderness, where she had felt most at home. She ached to go there. To disappear into the night.

"Too high for jumpin'," a voice said, causing her to whip her head around.

She found Daryl standing on the plank leading up to her, cigarette burning in his mouth. He looked lost, like he didn't know what to say to her. Well, at least the feeling was mutual. She looked back at her hands, then past the walls again.

"Follow me?" she asked.

"What, girl?" he said, sitting down next to her, not close enough to touch.

"Did you... follow me?"

"Hate to break it to ya, but this here is my spot," he said, nodding toward the corner where there was over a dozen cigarette butts mashed into the wood.

"Oh," she said stupidly. "Sorry. Go?"

"Naw," he said, ashing with a graceful flick of his fingers. "Y'ain't gotta go."

"Okay," she said.

They sat like that in silence for a while. Him, smoking - her, wishing. Wishing she were still out on the road. Wishing no one had recognized her. Wishing she would never have to deal with all these expectations to be who she was, or to be better. Those two things were so far from her grasp they were damn near impossible, but the fact that she had survived seemed to spark a belief in miracles - she could see it in her sister's eyes.

"Morgan," Daryl said, "he been okay to ya? He seems a little... off."

"All are," she said with a huff.

"But he's treated ya alright? Right?" Daryl asked, eyes flicking over to her face. She could feel his gaze on the side of her cheek. "I know ya don't remember us, but if anything happened, y'could tell us."

"He... saved me," she pushed out. "Maybe not... all there. I'm not either. All there. But Morgan is... friend. All I know. Morgan is all... I know. He's... alright."

"Take your word for it, then," Daryl said, letting the subject drop easily. "Y'hate it here, huh?"

"... no," she tried.

"Y'wanna be out there," he said. "I know that look. But there ain't nothin' out there for ya. Maggie was right, y'know. Y'could start over."

"Life... doesn't work that way," she responded. "There is... no... over. No Beth. No... nothing. Just... this. This head. This... brain. This... broken."

"Y'ain't broken, girl," Daryl argued, anger seeping into his voice.

"You don't... know me."

"I knew ya before!" he said, fists clenching.

"Knew. Before. Before... bullet. Before... almost dead. Before... dark," she said, exhausting herself. "I need to... go."

"Don't," Daryl whispered, and then louder again, "just... don't."

"What?"

"Don't... disappear again," Daryl asked. "Stay here. With us. With all of us. With Morgan. We'll make it work for you. Just don't go again."

She was stunned at the emotion on his face. How he could go from completely shut down to an open wound - an open book. She read him like she knew him - had known him for a long, long time. Which, she guessed she had. Maybe it was muscle memory. Or maybe he was just a bad bluff.

"I go... where Morgan... goes," she said easily. "And he goes... where Rick goes."

"Goodnight, Phoenix," Daryl said, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

She climbed down the ladder, hitting the ground with both feet, making a satisfying thud. The walk back to the house wasn't as confusing and she found it with little problem. Morgan was sitting outside, talking to a man she hadn't met. She walked past them, going in the back way, shutting the door behind her. It wasn't until she was alone in kitchen of the house that she realized Daryl was the first person to ever call her by her name.


	5. Chapter 5

She couldn't sleep. The short dreams that came fed her insanity - flashes of things, bright and wild, like fire behind her eyes. She kicked the blankets off until they were on the floor and leaped to her feet. Her body felt alert - ready - strong. Like it wanted to go. Like it needed to fight. She clenched her fists, once, then twice, before she strolled right out of the little house.

_Get out, I've got to get out,_ her brain screamed at her. She took a deep breath, shaking her head. _No. Can't go. Morgan. People now... people would look for me. Can't go. Wouldn't get far. Maybe... if I was smart... but I can't leave Morgan. _

Her feet hit the ground, each step with her old shoes felt like falling apart. The torn laces. The wrecked heel. She wondered why she hadn't thrown them out - found new ones. No time, maybe. Or just not caring. Comfort - it seemed like such a luxury. The blisters fit this new world she found herself in. Ugly and hard, like everything inside of her.

It took her longer than she'd admit to hear the person behind her. The even steps. The cautious gait. At first she thought, _Morgan. _But no, Morgan wouldn't have followed her, and had he gotten the best of her, he wouldn't have let it go out of curiosity - just to see where she was going, or what she was doing. She grappled for the knife stuck into the belt of her pants and turned abruptly to find the archer, watching her with sharp eyes.

"Daryl," she breathed out.

He was standing with his crossbow slung over his back. She watched him rub the back of his neck, ears turning red. _Busted. _He pulled the dying cigarette out of his mouth and stomped it out on the ground. She watched the back and forth of his boot in the dry dirt.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Just saw ya walkin'."

"Why follow?" she asked, tilting her head to the side.

"Wanted to make sure you were alright," he said. "It's late out. Y'should be sleepin'."

She shrugged her shoulders, not saying anything. She turned to walk, expecting him to disappear into the shadows, but instead he fell into step beside her. She didn't mind his company. Daryl was quiet. It was almost like being alone, but not quite. She wondered if he was waiting for her to say something. She peeked up at him, finding him looking at the dark sky.

"I'm not..." she struggled to speak. "Not big talker."

"Ain't complainin'," he said easily. "Just... nice to see ya. Thought I wouldn't again. Was startin' to forget..."

"Forget?"

"Your face," Daryl said. "I remembered how... it felt, bein' with ya, how ya made me... feel. But time... maybe the pain of losin' ya like that... your face just kinda burned up in my memories."

"How... did you feel?" she risked asking. The way he looked at her, the way he was talking... she couldn't help but wonder... "Were we... love?"

"I ain't good with words," Daryl said. "We weren't together back then. Wasn't your boyfriend - wouldn't know a damn thing about bein' someone's boyfriend... ya just... meant a lot to me."

"Not... love?" she asked.

"Don't matter how I felt," he said frustrated with her. "Y'saved me though. After all the shit went down, ya dragged my ass back t'life. I wanted to just stop, and give up, and y'wouldn't let me."

"What was... Beth... like?" she asked him, eyebrows furrowing.

"Strong. Smart. Hopeful."

"Me?" she asked.

"Yeah. Ya sang a lot. Watched after Rick's daughter like she was yer own. Put everyone 'fore yourself. But... there was more t'ya then that. Ya were stubborn. Angry, sometimes, too. Mostly with me. Wild. We burned down a house together," he said with a fond smile. It was the first time she had seen him really smile, and it almost took her breath away.

"Why?" she asked, confused.

"Ya wanted to," he said. "So did I."

"Maybe that's... why..." she said, talking more to herself than to him.

"Why what?"

"I keep... seeing... it," she struggled, breath quickening at the thought.

"Seeing what, girl?" Daryl asked, voice demanding her answer. "Ya seein' things? We got a doc here, he could -"

"No," she said, shaking her head, feeling dizzy. She was quick to cut off his concern, seeing the worry written plainly on her face. _Morgan was right, she needed to start talking in full sentences. _"Just... dreams. There's always... fire. Smoke... fire. I see it... every night."

"Oh," he said. Daryl shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at her. "Am I there, too? In the dreams."

She tried to avoid the way he was looking at her. Daryl's eyes were almost begging her to say yes. To find some thread between her and the girl he spoke so fondly of. For a minute, a dumb, short minute, she even wanted to say yes.

"No," she said. "I... I'm talking in them... to someone. Don't know... who."

"What're you saying?" he asked.

"Change..." she says softly. "I wish I could just... change."

And when Daryl smiles this time, there's no almost about it - there's not a lick of air left in her lungs. It staggers her to knows the archer's been there the whole time, inside of her broken brain somewhere. That through injury and illness and amnesia, she had been holding onto Daryl so tightly that he had survived where _she _hadn't. Then suddenly, the truth came washing over her like a tidal wave, leaving her cold and shaking:

Beth had loved him.

This girl she used to be, she loved this man, this archer, standing in front of her now, smiling. His rough edges, his angel wings. Beth had loved him, and held onto that one moment - she could see it more clearly now, like a movie playing, only the scenes still jumped a little. Shoulder to shoulder... her and Daryl. Their middle fingers in the air. Setting the world on fire. 


End file.
